


More Than A Memory

by Vontar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Adventure, Drama, Female Voldemort/Tom Riddle, Friendship, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-01-24 09:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18568573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vontar/pseuds/Vontar
Summary: In the Chamber of Secrets, Harry finds Ginny's unmoving body and a diary belonging to Tom Riddle. Oh, and Tom Riddle too. Except Tom Riddle is not quite like what Harry expects.





	1. Prologue I: The Chamber

_May 29 th, 1992_           

Harry stood dumbly in McGonagall’s office with his thoughts scattered. In front of him was a sobbing Mrs. Weasley, a solemn Professor McGonagall, and a saddened Mr. Weasley hugging Ron. Harry was standing by the fire of the office, and despite the warmth of the hearth, was still chilled by an experience that most grown wizards and witches would have been frightened by. It did not help that he was also somewhat wet, both with sewage water and blood. The primary reason for his unsettled mind, however, was neither the current damp quality of his robes or the fact that he had just faced down and killed Salazar Slytherin’s one-thousand year old basilisk.

No, it was the fact that Harry had failed, and now Ginny Weasley was dead.

* * *

_Earlier_

Harry entered the long, dimly lit chamber. The entire space had a green glow to it, and the snake motif continued throughout the hall. Harry slowly moved forward, wand out, checking each of the pillars on either side of him that straddled the main path for any signs of impending doom, mostly of the basilisk-related variety. There were a considerable number of tall pillars, and each one seemed to possess carved stone snakes that threatened to leap out at him whenever he looked away. As he neared the last row of pillars, a great statue of a wizard came into view, as tall as the ceiling and made of stone. And by its feet lay Ginny’s prone and pale form.

“Ginny!” Harry sprinted over to the body of his best friend’s sister, placing his wand down while falling to his knees and using both hands to grab her shoulders, hoping beyond hope that she wasn’t dead. She didn’t respond. Her face was pale, her body cold, her eyes closed… and not petrified. “Please don’t be dead! Ginny, wake up!” Harry desperately said, almost whispered, gently trying to shake her back into consciousness.

“She won’t wake,” came a soft voice from behind Harry. Harry spun around quickly at the sound, still on his knees. A black-haired girl was leaning against one of the nearest pillars while looking back at Harry. She blurred at the edges, as if not wholly there.

“Wh-who are you?” Harry stuttered, shocked by the presence of another person in the Chamber of Secrets. He relaxed a bit after examining her uniform for a second, realizing that she was also a Hogwarts student, albeit an older Slytherin. She smirked.

“I’m Tom,” she lazily replied, looking off past Harry’s head into Salazar Slytherin’s statue.

“Tom – _Tom Riddle_?” She nodded. “But, you’re a … girl.” Harry was somewhat bewildered – after all, he had never seen a _female_ Tom before. Riddle glared back at him.

Finally, Harry shook his head, and returned back to the worrying issue. “What do you mean she won’t wake?” Harry asked. “She’s not, well…”

“She’s not dead.” Harry let out a breath of air he didn’t know he had been holding. “But only just.” Harry glanced up at that, finally looking at Riddle directly and taking her figure in. She was fairly tall, taller than he was at any rate, and her angular features, high cheekbones, and silky hair only contributed to what Harry could describe as ‘pretty’, though there was a look in her eyes that detracted from the attractiveness of her form. Riddle was also young – she looked like she could still be school, and not more than a few years older than Harry himself.

“Are you a ghost?” Harry questioned, uncertain of how Tom Riddle appeared here in this form.

“A memory,” responded Riddle, her voice quiet. “Preserved for fifty years in a diary. And if things go right, I’ll be more than a memory momentarily.” Harry glanced at the feet of the statue, where a diary – Riddle’s little black diary, the one he had found in Myrtle’s bathroom – sat.

“You’ve got to help me, Tom.” Harry, doing the best he could, tried to lift Ginny off the ground and slung her across his shoulders. Bending, he went to pick up his wand where he left it, only to discover that it had vanished.

“Did you see my –?”

Harry looked up at Riddle, and found his wand in her hand. She was examining it while twirling the wand around between her long slender fingers.

“Thanks,” Harry said, strained with Ginny’s weight, as he reached out to receive the wand from Riddle. It didn’t come. Riddle’s mouth curled up in a smile, though it looked to have little happiness and a lot more of what Harry would describe as malice.

“We’ve got to go,” said Harry urgently, glancing around. “If the basilisk comes back…”

“It won’t come until it’s called,” Riddle replied, still playing with Harry’s wand. Harry knelt to gently put Ginny back on the ground at this, unable to continue carrying her weight. Slowly, he stood back up, all the while looking straight at Riddle. This all seemed very odd – there was something else at play.

“How did she get like this?” Harry asked, still eyeing Riddle and his own wand in her hand. Riddle pocketed the wand before replying.

“Ah, well that’s an interesting question,” Riddle said, a pleasant tone in her voice that contrasted with the grim smile on her face. “I suppose it’s because Ginny Weasley poured her heart and soul into something she did not understand.”

“What are you talking about?” queried Harry, confused.

“The diary,” replied Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny has been writing all of her fears and worries into it for months, telling me everything that she was thinking about: her family, her school experiences, and most importantly, you, about how she felt like she was never good enough for the great Harry Potter…” Riddle’s eyes bored into Harry, a hungry gleam staring right into his soul.

“It was dreadfully boring, the silly troubles of an eleven-year-old girl. But I was patient, I wrote back, I was kind, I understood her. Ginny simply _loved_ me. I was like the friend she could carry everywhere and talk to at any time.” Riddle laughed, the coldness of which did not match her rich soft voice, and the laughter put Harry on edge. It seemed so familiar to him…

“The more Ginny wrote to me, the more I grew stronger. Eventually, I gathered enough strength, far more than little Miss Weasley herself had, and I could begin pouring some of my soul back into her.” Riddle huffed a bit. “She did begin to suspect that something was wrong, however, and after some time, she tried to dispose of the diary. Of course, imagine my delight when the person who picked it up after that was none other than you, Harry Potter, the one I had wanted to meet and talk to for so long.”

“And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry. His emotions were a mix of anger at Riddle for whatever she had done and concern for Ginny, whose condition he knew could only be getting worse in this miserable chamber.

“Well, Ginny told me all about you, and your _fascinating_ history. I had to find out more about you, so to gain your trust, I told you all about my own fifth year, about my great capture of that oaf Hagrid.”

“Hagrid’s my friend,” Harry responded, the wrath in his blood turning into shakiness in his voice. His fists were clenched. “I thought you had made a mistake, but you just framed him, didn’t you?” Riddle laughed that cold laugh again.

“It was my word against his, and no one disputed mine against someone who everyone in the school knew liked all of those exotic creatures. The stupidity of Dippet and the others, believing that someone as foolish and weak as Hagrid could be the Heir of Slytherin. Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, didn’t fully believe me. He never had…” Riddle trailed off at the end.

“I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” Harry grinded out, his teeth gritted.

“Well, in any case, I was unable to complete my goal then, but I knew that by preserving my sixteen-year-old self in a diary, I could one day return to finish what I had not completed.”

Harry had a triumphant look at this.

“You’ve failed again then. No one has died, not even a muggle-born. The Mandrake Drought is near finished and soon everyone will be all right.”

“Haven’t I told you already,” whispered Riddle, “that killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter anymore? My new target is you, and it has been for many months now.” Harry stared at Riddle, confused and more than a little curious.

“Why?”

“Isn’t it odd how a baby defeated the most powerful wizard of all time? How you escaped with little more than a scar when Lord Voldemort’s powers were shattered?” Her eyes had an almost red gleam now, though it could have been a trick of light.

“Why do you care,” Harry replied, slowly. “Voldemort was after your time.”

“Voldemort,” said Riddle, her voice now soft and quiet. “is my past, present, and future.”

Pulling Harry’s wand from robes, Riddle waved around her wand, writing out her full name.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

With a simple swish of the wand, the letters swirled around, re-arranging themselves.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

“You see? It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, only to those closest to me, of course. I was never going to continue using the stupid name of my muggle father that my mother, at the end of her life and wit, chose for me in delusion because she thought I was a boy. No, I fashioned a name that everyone would remember, that everyone would fear when I became the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

Harry stood numbly staring at Riddle, whose rather pretty face had been twisted in the throes of her speech into something far less appealing. And then he realized the greatest twist of the speech. Voldemort was a female? Harry was absolutely shocked. He believed that Voldemort had always been male – no one ever said anything to the contrary. He remembered a cold laugh and green light as a baby, but that reasonably could’ve been from either a male or female, given the vagueness of the memory. The wraith in his first year, as well, on the back of Quirrell’s head had little in the way of distinctive features for either sex; it wasn’t much more than just eyes, a nose, and a mouth.

“You’re not,” Harry finally responded, his brain coming to grips with the whole situation. His voice was harsh, especially as he connected this school-aged student to his parents’ murderer.

“Not what?” Riddle snapped back.

“Not the greatest sorcerer in the world. Sorry to disappoint, but Albus Dumbledore is, and everyone in the world knows it. Even you didn’t dare to attack Hogwarts at the peak of your power. Dumbledore has seen through you since you were at school, and you’re still frightened by him now.” Harry breathed at the end of his long tirade, having vented some of his anger. Riddle’s smile had been replaced by an ugly look, a glare far more malicious than when Harry had first exclaimed that Tom was a girl.

“Dumbledore has been driven out of this castle by my mere memory!”

“He’s not as gone as you might think!” Riddle opened her mouth to retort, but a sudden cry stopped her. Music filled the chamber as a crimson bird flew in, its feathers glittering. It dropped a raggedy thing – Harry quickly realized that it was the school sorting hat – at his feet, before landing on his shoulder.

“That’s a phoenix…” Riddle whispered, staring at it.

“Fawkes?” Harry questioned, curious about why the old bird had come.

Then Riddle began to laugh. Her laughter rang out, echoing throughout the chamber as it increased in intensity.

“Back to business – how did you survive my killing curse?”

Harry thought for a moment, analyzing his situation. Armed with only the sorting hat and having no reinforcements other than a phoenix, he was heavily disadvantaged against Riddle, who still wielded Harry’s wand. He also noticed that Riddle was becoming more clear and defined with every passing minute, so he had to end this conversation now before she became even more solid.

“My mother died to protect me. My _muggle-born_ mother,” he emphasized, “stopped you with her love. And now you’re a wreck. You’re less than human. I saw you, the real you, last year, and you are pathetic. That’s where all your power got you. You’re hiding. You’re ugly, you’re foul!”

Riddle’s face contorted, before she forced it into a sinister-looking, awful smile.

“Very well, then,” Riddle said, fingering Harry’s wand. “Let’s test this. Let’s test Harry Potter, the _boy-who-lived_ with the best tools Albus Dumbledore has to offer to him against the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Slytherin.”

And things went rather downhill for Harry after that, considering he was facing trouble of the basilisk-related variety.

* * *

_Present_

Wrapping his arms around his slightly moist robes, Harry leaned against part of the wall by the office fire. He was overwhelmed by guilt – guilt from his failure, and that his relationship with Ron, and no doubt the Weasley family as a whole, was now irrevocably damaged. If only he had been faster. Maybe he could have saved Ginny. Then again, Riddle being there didn’t make it any easier.

The basilisk had easily been the most terrifying thing Harry had ever faced, and that was taking into account the shade of one of the greatest dark lords of all time inhabiting a homicidal Defense professor that he faced last year. It took everything Harry had and literally more (in the form of Fawkes and phoenix tears) to defeat the basilisk, and it took the second-year far closer to the death’s veil than he wanted to be at this age.

Harry’s mouth did curl up a bit when he remembered how angry Riddle was after seeing the basilisk defeated and dead.

* * *

_Earlier, but not as early_

With a great crash, the massive millennium-old basilisk slumped onto the ground as Gryffindor’s sword pierced the roof of its mouth. Harry could vaguely hear a scream of fury from across the chamber, followed by curses of the non-magical kind. He could also feel a sharp solid object piercing his arm, and a glance confirmed his suspicion that he had been bitten by one of the most poisonous magical creatures in existence. Harry slid down the wall, feeling his energy draining from his body as he pulled the broken fang out of his arm.

“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” Riddle growled, stalking over to him. “Even Dumbledore’s phoenix knows it.” And Fawkes was crying, his tears falling onto Harry and sliding down his bloodied arm. Harry could feel death pulling on him – except that death’s pull now felt like a good night’s sleep. Inexplicably, Harry could feel energy _surging_ back into him, and when he glanced back down at his wounded arm, there was no longer a wound.

“Stupid bird, get away!” Riddle yelled, furious. She cast a spell of some kind that sounded like a gunshot, and Fawkes flew away.

“Phoenix tears,” Riddle muttered, staring at Harry’s wet but no longer wounded arm. “Of course. Healing powers. But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. It’s just you and me now…” She raised the wand to point at Harry.

Suddenly, a flutter of wind gusted upon Harry as Fawkes flew back, and a small object dropped on his lap. The diary – Riddle’s diary. Without thinking, Harry grabbed the nearby fang as Riddle’s eyes widened, and he proceeded to thrust it into the diary, only to realize that it had been pulled out of his lap before he was able to do so.

“Yes!” cried Riddle, with a smile on her face and the diary in her hand. “It’s almost time!”

Harry glared at the nearly-rejoicing Riddle, and he lunged out at her. Reacting quickly, she shot a red spell towards him, but Harry, a naturally-talented and Oliver Woods-trained seeker, reacted even faster, dodging the spell. One hand grasping the broken basilisk fang, he jumped right at Riddle.

The pain of contact with a not-yet-corporeal form was far more than Harry expected, and he found himself almost suspended, barely touching the front of her robes. He could see her eyes widening in pain, as her mouth moved to form sounds of anguish. A blue aura surrounded them both as a scream echoed throughout the chamber, but coming from neither of them. As soon as it began, however, it ended, and Harry felt himself going forward, albeit far more light-headed and weakened than he had started. Still, he grasped onto the diary in Riddle’s now-weakened grip and fell forward as a force blew them apart with moderate strength.

Harry groaned on the ground, fang in one hand and diary in the other. Without any thoughts, he thrust the two together, watching the ink spurt out of the diary as the basilisk fang’s poison worked its way through the magically-enhanced muggle implement.

“Yes!” came a cry from behind Harry. Sitting him, he gingerly turned around to see an absolutely jubilant, no longer transparent or blurry. She was completely solid, as corporeal as Harry or Ginny. Disheartened, Harry discarded the useless destroyed diary and the broken fang, and crawled over to Ginny. She looked even worse than before, and Harry could not feel any signs of life from her small frail form. She was dead.

Harry’s heart filled with despair as he turned back to Riddle, who was now stalking towards Harry with a smirk of absolute confidence on her face. The smirk slipped for a few seconds as she blinked a couple of times and looked at her outstretched arms.

“What the…,” the newly reconstituted Riddle whispered to herself – Harry could see why. The relatively mature teenaged Riddle that had been a memory of a small, black diary had been replaced with a corporeal version, but this version was somewhat younger. Not as young as Harry himself, but she was certainly no sixth year any longer, at least not as far as appearances went.

Riddle uttered a quiet _tsk_ at the unwanted revelation, but she looked at Harry again and raised her wand.

“It doesn't matter.  All that matters is that I’ve won, Potter. And now, you will-,”

“I think not.”

Three simple words caused Riddle to spin around at the soft yet stern voice behind her, and her eyes widened at the imposing sight of Albus Dumbledore. He stood resolutely with his wand in his hand, not more than fifteen paces behind Riddle, and while his face was calm and composed, his eyes showed more rage and power than the sixteen-year-old Riddle could ever recall seeing in her Transfiguration teacher.

“You! No!” Riddle yelled, raising her wand. Her eyes showed signs of fear as she realized that her moment of triumph could very well turn into her second great defeat. She fired off multiple spells in quick succession, a lightshow of every color flying through the air towards the aged headmaster of Hogwarts. He barely flicked his wand as each spell was absorbed by a translucent semi-circular shield that flickered in front of him, and even though Riddle was flinging curse after jinx after hex at him, Dumbledore advanced forwards towards his former student at a consistent pace.

“Avada Kedavra!” Riddle yelled as the all-too-familiar green jet of light bursted out of Harry’s wand towards Dumbledore. He simply flicked his wand upwards and one of the side pillars flung itself in front of the old man, blowing apart at impact with the killing curse to reveal an eerily calm Dumbledore amidst the dust and rubble. Riddle fell to her knees, wand clattering out of her hand onto the stone floor, her magical core spent, and she looked upwards at Dumbledore as he pointed his wand at her. He seemed to deliberate in his mind for a second, before almost imperceptibly nodding to himself and fired a red spell at his fallen student, Riddle slumping over onto the ground at contact with the spell.

Meanwhile, Harry held Ginny’s head in his lap as he watched the duel – if it could even be called such – between his greatest enemy and his headmaster. He had no doubt that even Snape, who defeated Lockhart with ease during the doomed first meeting of the Dueling Club, would be completely outclassed by either combatant here, and would be no more than the Lockhart to either of these Snapes.

“Harry.” He glanced up to see the towering form of the headmaster, wand in hand and an unreadable expression on his face. His aura exuded unparalleled magical ability, and for the first time in his life, Harry could see why Albus Dumbledore was considered the greatest wizard in the world.

The time after that passed in a blur. Harry had gone to McGonagall’s office with Ron (who had not taken the sight of his sister’s body well), while Dumbledore, accompanied by a dazed Lockhart with Ginny and Riddle – the latter bound with magically conjured ropes – floating behind him, headed towards the Hospital Wing with patients in tow.

* * *

It took the pair about ten minutes to reach the Gryffindor Head’s office, and in it, they found the Weasley parents sitting with Professor McGonagall. The Weasley patriarch looked solemn and downcast, while Mrs. Weasley was full-on crying. She glanced upwards at the pair as they entered, and upon seeing the desolate look on Ron’s face, sobbed as she realized what must have happened. Mr. Weasley stood to hug his son, while Harry awkwardly shuffled behind, feeling guilty that the events had transpired as they had. He was shocked when he felt a pair of warm arms slide around him, and he realized that Mrs. Weasley was now hugging him.

“Thank you for trying so hard,” she sobbed, as she held on tighter to Harry.

The hugging was interrupted by a throat-clearing by the open door, and everyone in the office looked to see Dumbledore, an out-of-place smile on his face.

“I have the most extraordinary news.” At this, everyone blinked and focused on his next words.

“Miss Weasley is alive.” Mrs. Weasley squeaked slightly. “Whatever ritual or process used by the diary did not completely drain her magical core. She has acute magical exhaustion and will remain bedridden for perhaps up to a month, but she will fully recover from her ordeal, given proper care and guidance. Mrs. Weasley turned to Mr. Weasley and the two hugged each other tightly, both now crying in joy. Ron’s eyes widened as he turned and grabbed Harry by the shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. Harry, for his part, stood still, shocked once more, but for once, in happiness.

Dumbledore stood there, smiling, for about a half-minute, before clearing his throat once more. “I daresay that you will all want to be with Miss Weasley in the Hospital Wing.” Mrs. Weasley nodded and was the first to head for the door. As everyone began leaving the office, Dumbledore placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, a silent gesture for him to stay behind. Harry smiled at the Weasleys, and Mr. Weasley only glanced at Dumbledore before nodding and gesturing for his wife and son to continue walking. Professor McGonagall shot a curious glance to Dumbledore before she exited and closed the door.

“Is there something you need to speak to me about, professor?” Harry questioned. Dumbledore seemed to lose some of his joviality. He looked down at the pierced diary, which Harry had carried out of the Chamber of Secrets.

“This is something that we must discuss in my office,” Dumbledore replied. The pair turned to the door, only to see it flung open with a bang and an irate Lucius Malfoy enter. The house-elf Dobby, wrapped in bandages, walked in a few seconds after his master.

“Good evening, Lucius,” Dumbledore responded pleasantly, his joviality back in full force for the elder Malfoy’s benefit.

“So, you’ve come back. The governors suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to Hogwarts.” Dumbledore smiled.

“Well, the other eleven governors contacted me today. They’d heard that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed and wanted me back; they seemed to think I was the best man for the job. Strangely, many of them seemed to think that you had threatened them with violence if they didn’t agree to suspend me. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

Lucius Malfoy paled, but he still glared with fury at the pair.

“It was fortunate that no one died during Ginny Weasley’s possession. There might have been some very unfortunate consequences otherwise…” Dumbledore continued, still looking at Malfoy with a pleasant smile on his face.

“How… fortunate,” Malfoy replied stiffly. Before Harry or Dumbledore could say anything, he spun on his heel to leave. “Dobby! We’re leaving.” Dobby continued pointing at the diary and Lucius Malfoy while he left.

It suddenly occurred to Harry what Dobby meant. Quickly taking off his sock, he put it in the diary, half of it sticking out. Rushing out, he ran until he was near Malfoy.

“Mr. Malfoy! You’ve forgotten this,” Harry said as he pushed the diary into the elder Malfoy’s hands. He then took a few steps backwards.

“What the-,” Malfoy exclaimed, ripping out the sock and throwing it over his shoulder. He examined the diary for a second before his eyes widened, and he glared at Harry as he threw the diary back towards him. The diary slid across the floor between the two.

“You’ll soon meet the same sticky end as your parents, Potter,” Malfoy quietly said, rage barely contained in his voice. He turned once more.

“Dobby, let’s go!” When the house-elf made no signs of moving, Lucius snarled. “I said, let’s go!” He looked to his side to look at his disobedient house-elf, only to see the elf admiring a sock in his hands. He connected the two quickly, and yelled out loud.

“You’ve lost me my servant, boy!” Lucius Malfoy was quick to whip out his wand, but Dobby was quicker, and a snap of the latter’s fingers saw Malfoy fly across the corridor.

“You shall not harm Harry Potter. You shall go now,” Dobby said resolutely, standing between the second-year and Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy glared at the pair one last time, then stood up, swung his cloak back on and left without another word.

“Where will you go now, Dobby?” Harry asked, looking at the newly-freed elf.

“Dobby will find a place to stay. Thank you Harry Potter! Farewell!” Dobby cheerfully replied. He then disappeared with a loud crack. Harry slowly shook his head, gathered the diary and put his sock back on, and headed back towards McGonagall’s office, where Dumbledore stood just outside with a smile on his face.

 “That was some very quick thinking, Harry,” Dumbledore complimented. Harry smiled at the aged professor, and followed Dumbledore’s lead as the headmaster led him towards his office. The journey was not very long, and soon, they stood before a gargoyle statue.

“Sherbet lemon,” Dumbledore said clearly, and the gargoyle shifted out of the way to reveal a spiral staircase. “After you,” Dumbledore said to Harry, gesturing up the stairs. Harry stepped forward, making his way up the staircase. At the top, he saw a heavy oak door, which Dumbledore, from over Harry’s head, opened, revealing a large circular room.

Frankly, it was beautiful. It was full of noises, mostly from several curious silver instruments that emitted puffs of smoke every now and then on Dumbledore’s desk. Portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, many of them snoozing, lined the wall behind the large desk. It was just like when he had visited earlier in the school year, except now Harry’s spirits were in far better shape.

Then he looked at one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk and saw Tom Riddle sitting in one, still dressed in her Slytherin robes, her eyes glaring at him. The atmosphere chilled considerably, even with the warm cheeriness of Dumbledore’s office. Dumbledore gestured for Harry to sit, and he acquiesced, gingerly sitting down beside Riddle. Despite the hate-filled glare, she sat still in her chair, hands crossed over her lap and her posture impeccable. Dumbledore went around to his own chair.

“Sherbet lemon?” he offered, looking at both Harry and Riddle. The former shook his head, and the latter simply stared at the bowl as if to catch it on fire. Dumbledore shrugged, peeled the wrapper off one, and popped it into his mouth, a smile of delight appearing on his face when he tasted the sweet.

“Uh, professor, what is Riddle doing here?” Harry warily asked. Dumbledore sucked on his sweet for a few more seconds before responding.

“I’m glad you asked, Harry. Tom here has agreed to an Unbreakable Vow with me – an Unbreakable Vow is simply that, unbreakable, and to break it means death. Now, she cannot harm either of us or anyone else I’ve set, and will now work to our ultimate cause of defeating Voldemort. I will personally be dealing with her on this issue, so you need not worry about it.” Harry, with wide eyes, glanced at Riddle, who had a look of annoyance as she turned to examine one of the portraits on the wall.

“Now, Harry,” Dumbledore continued, “could you please hand over the diary?” Harry quickly nodded, and brought up the diary from his pocket, handing it to the headmaster. He examined it, and closed his eyes solemnly for a few seconds.

“Professor?” Harry cautiously asked.

“I must explain some of this to you, though not all – you are still too young for the specifics. Needless to say, Tom here, in her youthful foolishness,” this earned a glare from Riddle, “split her soul in twain, leaving part of it to inhabit this diary. That is how she is here now, in this form. Her plan was to use Miss Weasley’s magical core to bring this soul piece into corporeal existence, thereby effectively creating a second Tom Riddle in this world.”

Dumbledore paused, letting the enormity of that statement sink into the room’s occupants. For better or for worse, the great game that Dumbledore was waging against the dark forces surrounding Britain had irrevocably changed, and both Harry and the new Tom Riddle knew that they would undoubtedly play instrumental roles in whatever upcoming conflict would occur.

“Now, seeing as how Miss Weasley is not dead, a second set of events must have occurred. On the night of Voldemort’s attack, eleven years ago, she fired a killing curse at you. We all know that it failed and rebounded, but I hypothesize that in addition to the rebound, a fragment of her soul went into you.”

At this, Harry looked startled. A piece of Voldemort inhabited him? Does that mean he was being possessed?

“To allay your fears,” the old headmaster continued, seemingly able to read Harry’s mind, “it seems that you overpowered this inadvertently created soul fragment of Voldemort’s, and thus it remained dormant. That is, until today. Did you, by any chance, magically connect or physically touch in the Chamber?”

Harry thought about it, before remembering his lunge for the diary and the blue aura that followed.

“Yes, professor. I jumped at Riddle, and when we connected, we were surrounded by a blue aura that blew us apart from each other,” Harry replied.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in the candlelight of his office.

“That must’ve been it, then. The soul fragment in you must’ve been awoken and moved to merge with the one in the diary. Using Miss Weasley as the conduit may also, if I may postulate, explain why Tom is so young compared to when she originally created the soul fragment – some magical mixing, so to speak.”

Dumbledore pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it. “Oh my, it is getting late. You should clean up and head down to the feast, Harry. I will be there momentarily.” Harry nodded, stood up, and with a single glance again to the sitting Riddle and the headmaster, left the circular office.

A few moments of semi-awkward silence took place between the two remaining people in the headmaster's office.

“Tom,” the headmaster began, a tiredness creeping into his voice that he did not show in front of Harry, “you know I value second chances, and this may very well be your only opportunity. More than just your soul fragments merging, given that Miss Weasley’s magical core has been nearly completely depleted, parts of her soul could have very well been imprinted on yours.” Finally, Riddle spoke.

“What do you mean, imprinted?”

“In the same way your soul fragment’s age has been affected as it has mixed with Miss Weasley’s younger magic. Things like emotions, feelings, and other characteristics might have been transferred, and although none of it is likely to override your own, they may change the way you react to events.” Riddle looked a bit perturbed at the thought of her personality changing as a result of resurrection.

“This is why I say this may be your only second chance. You have the opportunity to start fresh, and Miss Weasley’s moral guidance may work to your benefit here.” Riddle huffed. “Now, I must be getting to the feast, so if you will?” Riddle stood up, and the two walked to one of the larger portraits in the office.

“Haven,” Dumbledore said, and the portrait slid open to reveal a relatively spacious room. It had a bed, a desk, and some books of academic interest, as well as an adjacent bathroom – there was also a window with a nice enough view, but it could not be opened.

“You will stay here for the time being - some house elves will be along shortly to bring you dinner." A pause. "I implore you to think about what I’ve said,” Dumbledore continued, as Riddle climbed through into the room. “Take some time for thinking, and you may even find remorse.” The portrait slid closed, and Riddle was alone.

She let out a breath of air that she had been holding, and glanced around. Not tired just yet, she walked over to the window, and pulled a chair to sit in front of it. The view was rather nice from this high up. She could see the lake, and the hills beyond it. Hogwarts was still very much like a home to the sixteen-year-old-turned-fourteenish-year-old orphan, and she treasured it in a way that most could not hope to understand.

Just weeks before, she had felt nothing but pure elation and joy at the prospect of sucking Ginny Weasley’s magic like a vampire does a human’s blood to regain her body and power. Now, _after_ she had taken the better part of the girl’s magic, everything had changed. Her freedom was gone, no better than when she was but a memory, and perhaps it was even worse now that Dumbledore could force her to act against herself. On top of that, there was a new conflict igniting in her soul, a battle over a feeling she hated with every fiber of her being.

Uncertainty.

She was uncertain about what lay in her future now, and that scared Tom Riddle to her very core.


	2. Prologue II: The Graveyard

_June 24th_   _, 1995_

Harry looked around, dazed at the sudden change in scenery. Just a moment ago, he was at the end of the maze, having battled his way through the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. The last thing he remembered was reaching out to the cup simultaneously with Cedric Diggory, his fellow Hogwarts champion, as a gesture of comradery to end the tournament with a joint Hogwarts victory. Now, they were in the middle of nowhere, a dark and misty place that was definitely nowhere near the school or anywhere Harry had been before, for that matter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cedric in about the same state as himself. The unwilling fourth Triwizard champion breathed out a few times to regain his bearings, ignoring the spinning sensation as long as he could, though it did not feel as if it were improving any.

"Wands out?" Cedric whispered. Harry nodded, keeping his at the ready and the Reductor Curse on the tip of his tongue. It was, after all, quite obvious that whoever had so graciously invited them to such a dark and desolate locale was not looking out for their best interests.

The moment Harry took his first step forward, a delayed, but somewhat familiar bout of nausea washed over Harry, causing him to bend over and hurl his last meal's contents - a light lunch of two sandwiches and a goblet of pumpkin juice. Faintly, he could hear Cedric yell, "Harry?" in the distance, and as he groggily looked up, a dark figure carrying a bundle walked past the blocks – headstones, Harry absentmindedly registered – with a confident gait.

"Kill the spare," came a hiss that sounded like the cross between a small child and a snake. Harry's scar flared again, forcing him to one knee, as he saw the telltale silhouette of long, thin wand in the figure's free hand. The wand was raised, and Harry reacted, half-delirious with pain, in a moment of pure instinct.

"Reducto!" Harry bellowed, blasting out the curse as loudly and powerfully as he could.

His power was there. His aim was not.

The bluish spell flew out of the end of Harry's Holly wand and impacted the ground of the distance that separated Harry and Cedric from the belligerent figure. A spray of dirt and rocks blew into the air, and the resulting shockwave of power from the curse sent all three standing people flying in their respective directions. The unknown figure and its held bundle went right through the top of a gravestone, while Harry and Cedric both were pushed back toward the cup.

Harry landed on his back with muted grunt, gasping as he felt the air knocked out and several body parts knocked in. Small rocks cut sharply into his skin, a few of them drawing the barest hints of blood. He coughed from the dust in the air and the uncomfortable lack of airflow in his chest as he struggled to turn onto his side, and he could see Cedric in much the same position. The older student was similarly groaning, and as Cedric rolled onto his side, his hand – in an effort to give his large frame some support and to find his footing – reached out to the ground.

His hand clasped firmly onto the forgotten Triwizard Cup.

Cedric barely had a second to glance at Harry with a look of shock – wide eyes and slack jaw – before he was whisked away in a vortex of miniaturization, seemingly sucked into the cup as it imploded on itself and disappeared. Where there had once been a cup and boy there was now only dirt, and after a few seconds of surprise, Harry came to the realization that he was very alone in the darkness.

Alone in an unfamiliar place with a wizard pointing a wand straight at him. Belatedly, Harry also realized that he no longer had his own wand.

"Bind him," the hissing voice spoke, and with little more than a murmur heard, Harry felt ropes tie themselves around him, tightening and sharply cutting into him. He yelled out in pain, but his cries did nothing as he was levitated. After a few moments, Harry felt his back forcibly pressed into a flat stone, and with some trepidation, he realized that he was being tied to a large gravestone.

Worse was the steaming cauldron in front of him, the tiny sparks of fire that jumped to and fro a premonition for something terrible to come. Harry, if regarded by Severus Snape, was no expert at potions, but there was nothing good that could come from any concoction out of that cauldron – at least, nothing good for him.

The hooded figure strode toward Harry, still holding the bundle of robes in his arm. As the figure neared Harry, he could begin to see under the large hood, which revealed none other than the visage of Peter Pettigrew.

"Wormtail?" Harry hesitantly said, before wincing as his head flared in pain, no doubt thanks to his own poorly aimed Reductor Curse doing more damage to himself than to the wizard in front of him.

Wormtail came to a stop by the cauldron, and Harry blanched once he saw what exactly was in the bundle of robes that the traitor of a Marauder carried. The creature – it could scarcely be called such – resembled some grotesque parody of a baby, its skin deathly white. Its proportions were off for any normal child, and its eyes carried an intelligence that no baby would have, conveying, along with flickers of insanity and cruelty, a pale mimicry of the human soul.

In that instant, Harry knew that he was looking at what was left of Lord Voldemort, the most dangerous magical to have lived since Grindelwald. Her power was broken, but even with what was left, Harry could feel a chill – perhaps additionally conflated by the rather brisk wind of the graveyard – through his bones and an existential dread creep through his heart.

Harry was once more face to face with Voldemort, and this time he was far from the protections of Hogwarts or the watchful gaze of Dumbledore. He was quite alone at the mercy of his greatest nemesis.

"Wormtail," Voldemort hissed, barely sparing a glance at the bound Harry in favor of the rapacious look she gave the cauldron, "do it!"

The diminutive wizard shakily nodded. Putting his wand into a pocket, Wormtail reached into a small satchel and withdrew a short, greyish-white length of partially decomposed bone. With only the briefest moment of hesitation, Wormtail walked forward and dropped the bone into the cauldron.

"Bone of the mother, unknowingly given," Wormtail chanted, as if it were a well-memorized verse, "you will renew your daughter!"

The words caused the concoction inside to bubble furiously as it turned a nasty shade of blue, more similar to the artificial shade of the dish cleaner that Harry used for the Dursleys than the pleasant, natural shade of a clear sky. Wormtail's expression turned decidedly more apprehensive as he saw the effects of the ingredient, but his arm was steady as he reached back into his satchel. However, instead of withdrawing another bone or something along those lines as Harry expected, Wormtail pulled out a small knife, its sharp edge glinting madly against the rising moonlight. He transferred the knife to his left hand, balancing the bundle of Voldemort in his left arm's elbow, while extending his right arm over the edge of the cauldron.

"Fl–," Wormtail began, before hesitating and stopping. He breathed deeply. "Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master!" Cutting quickly, Wormtail sliced through half of his forearm, letting the freshly cut flesh and bone fall into the liquid. The cauldron shook slightly as the liquid was brought to what seemed to be a roaring boil. The blue changed into an orange-red shade, like that of flickering fire.

Even with a bleeding stump of a right arm, Wormtail strode toward Harry. He wiped the knife clean on his shirt, leaving it spotless and gleaming as it was before he had amputated his own limb. Without a word, Wormtail cut into the flesh of Harry's left bicep, ignoring the teenaged boy's cries of pain as he watched the Chosen One's blood flow across the silver blade. When the red blood had nearly coated the silver metal, he pulled the knife back and held it over the edge of the cauldron.

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken," Wormtail panted, the still-flowing blood of his stump taking its toll, "you will resurrect your foe." He flicked the knife in his hand, forcing a few droplets of blood to fall from the edge of the blade and into the concoction below. The instant the blood hit the surface of the liquid, the potion turned in a solid shade of nearly pure white, emitting vast amounts of steam upward. Even though he was bound to a gravestone, Harry felt the unconscious need to lean back from the emission, its heat a palpable feeling against his sweaty skin.

With trepidation filling his heart, Harry watched as Wormtail raised the tiny bundle of cloth that contained what was left of Lord Voldemort over the edge of the cauldron, letting the small body fall out and into the liquid. For a few, heart-stopping moments, nothing happened, and Harry could almost believe that Voldemort had drowned in the foul concoction. But his hope was for naught, as the potion began to swirl, the steam rising from it becoming almost like a solid column of white that stretched to the heavens. From the center of the columns, a lone, slim figure rose as Harry's heart sank.

The steam disappeared, the liquid in the cauldron long evaporated.

The figure, its back to Harry, took a deep breath, as if it were its first such breath in an eternity. After a long moment, it climbed over the edge of the cauldron, which barely rose up to its waist.

"Wormtail," Voldemort breathed out, her voice like the hiss of a snake twisted into a facsimile of human speech. The English, accented as it was, had a simultaneously ethereal and hideous quality to it, a wholly unnatural combination that made Harry's hair stand on end. "Dress me."

"Ye–yes, my Lord," Wormtail stuttered out, rushing over with a thin black bundle of fabric that he desperately tried to keep away from his still-bleeding stump. The small man's face was turning an ashen white as the blood loss began to affect him, but the fear in his expression was evident and he kept his whimpering to a minimum as he hastily trying to drape the cloak around his naked master.

Voldemort looked down at her arms. "Crude, but sufficient." With a twirl, she spun around to face Harry, who blanched at the direct sight of the Dark Lord.

It was not that she had unduly terrified him beyond any of his previous experiences – perhaps courtesy of that Gryffindor courage that kept him going through thick and thin – but the entire package of the reincarnated Voldemort was truly horrifying to look upon. Her skin was an unnatural shade of solid white, devoid of any tinge of red blood, and the absolute lack of hair, be it on her head, above her eyes, or anywhere else invoked an otherworldly feeling in the worst possible way. Her nose was little more than a slit, and her eyes hinted at the depths of her cruelty. Perhaps the worst of it was the fact that Harry could, at least faintly, recall what those facial features once would have been, adding to an element of uncanniness.

Some time had passed since Harry had actively thought of Tom Riddle – that is, the newer, younger one. Dumbledore had insisted that Harry move on, that the situation was dealt with, and after holding some questions in his mind for the first few months, Harry had truly stopped caring about the question of Tom Riddle after the tumultuous events of his third and fourth years. In the face of the modern Voldemort, however, all those memories came flooding back in an instant – the diary, the Chamber, and, of course, Tom Riddle herself. A small corner of his mind staunchly hoped it was not the famed 'life flashing before your eyes' phenomenon so closely associated with imminent death.

Tom Riddle was, as objectively as Harry could put it, quite attractive, if only in a striking, haughty, and aristocratic fashion. Voldemort had some of the same features but twisted by dark magic and time. Features that were proud and aristocratic on Riddle were frightening and repulsive on Voldemort. High cheekbones made gave Riddle a noble look and Voldemort a hollow one. Dark eyes imparted a proud countenance upon Riddle and a crazed one on Voldemort. Thin, pursed lips contributed to Riddle's haughty air, but on Voldemort, they stood out starkly against the unhealthy shade of her skin. The rest of Voldemort's features were warped almost beyond recognition from their original form.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered, extending one long, thin finger toward the Boy Who Lived. As her finger brushed against Harry's cheek, he trembled at the chill it brought compared to his heated cheek.

"I can touch you now," the Dark Lord crooned, cupping his cheek. He squirmed in his binds, uncomfortable with the sensation of her cold hand on his skin. Thankfully for Harry, Voldemort soon withdrew her hand, seemingly content with the power she now held over the Boy Who Lived.

"Wormtail, your hand."

"T-t-thank you, my Lord," Wormtail whimpered. The sniveling rat animagus barely held back his tears as he held out the stump of his right arm, rivulets of blood still falling to the dirt.

"Not that one, fool. The other."

Wormtail quietly cried out but pulled back his right arm and extended the left, his sleeve pushed up just enough to see the lower portion of the Dark Mark. Extending her wand, Voldemort touched its tip to the inked skin and stepped back, absentmindedly flicking her wand once more to spit out a spurt of flame that engulfed the stump of Wormtail's right forearm. He fell to his knees as he screamed in pain, but after a few seconds, the cries dimmed to whimpers as he looked over his newly cauterized wound.

Harry warily looked around the graveyard, trying to find a way to escape the living nightmare he had found himself in. His attention, however, was taken by the sounds that echoed in the otherwise quiet air all around him in a circle. Ranging from soft, barely imperceptible pops to loud cracks, each sound was accompanied by a new looming dark figure, each hooded and masked.

Voldemort stood quietly as her dark followers apparated in one by one, until there was a nearly solid circle of dark robed figures that lined the graveyard.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the night air, broken every now and then by someone shuffling or quietly coughing. Even Harry, in his weak and vulnerable state, felt unnerved by how long Voldemort was holding the silence. For her part, she was not even looking at Harry or her Death Eaters, but rather at the ground, her eyes downcast as she stood in complete stillness.

"Thirteen years." Her voice echoed, enhanced by the silence and the still air. "It has been thirteen years since I've breathed. Since I've felt this kind of power coursing through me." She looked up. "Since any of you have decided to honor me as your rightful lord."

One of the robed figures fidgeted. "My Lord, I swear, I've always been loyal only to yo-" He cut off as Voldemort lazily flicked her wand at the outspoken Death Eater, leaving him writhing on the ground as he screamed in short gasps.

"As I was saying," Voldemort continued, as if there was not a man on the ground, "you have all abandoned me – of this I have no doubt. None of you even tried to find me, for none of you had faith in me – those that did are all in Azkaban."

The Death Eater on the ground was now contorting in near-unnatural ways, and no one doubted that behind his mask, the man was screaming in silence.

"So, tell me, my would-be loyal Death Eaters, why should I retain you for my new world?"

No one answered. No one could answer.

"I see," Voldemort whispered. "So that's how it is." She continued in her normal voice. "There is only one way forward then."

Every Death Eater immediately tensed, and some of the less-loyal ones felt their fingers inching for their wands. The pit of fear in each of their stomachs grew heavier and deeper with each passing moment, even as Voldemort stood still.

Finally, the Dark Lord laughed. It was a bone-chilling high laugh, the kind that struck terror and fear into the hearts of those who heard it. It was not the kind that people would associate with humor, mercy, or even sanity.

"It is favorable for you all, then, to know that I have decided to be lenient. I am extending my grace and forgiveness to everyone here, so that you may all redeem yourselves and join me in the new world we will make together." Ignoring the deflation of tension and quiet sighs of relief that came from her followers, Voldemort turned to the nearly unconscious Harry.

The chill of Voldemort's hand on Harry's cheek both shook him fully awake and sent a bolt of pain coursing through him.

"Now, Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered as she leaned in, her breath blowing softly on his left ear, "it is time." With a flick of her wand, the rope that bound Harry to the tombstone came undone, and he flopped to the ground much like a de-boned fish.

"The boy's wand, Wormtail." The wizard in question quickly pulled out a wand from his robes with his one good hand and handed it to his master.

"Get him up," Voldemort ordered the nearest two Death Eaters. They roughly pulled him up as he semi-deliriously looked around, eyes blinking rapidly. Walking up to Harry, Voldemort slid his wand into his right hand, looking slightly downward into his eyes.

"Let us, Harry Potter, have ourselves a duel. A duel to settle this all." She raised her hands. "One for the ages," she yelled mockingly, gesturing in a circle to the chuckles of her followers. "Or is the Boy Who Lived too scared to fight?"

Harry took a deep breath before looking upward at Voldemort. "I accept, Voldemort."

She tilted her head. "Very well. First, we bow," the Dark Lord began as she slightly bent her head forward. "I said: bow." With a small motion from Voldemort's wand, Harry felt as if there was a person pushing down on his back, forcing him to an almost-ninety-degree bent.

"Did Dumbledore not teach his protégé the traditional courtesies?" Voldemort scoffed, once again causing a ripple of light laughter from her assembled Death Eaters. "I'm quite disappointed."

"Now," Voldemort continued, "on the count of three. One. Two. Th–"

A series of loud cracks and pops permeated the graveyard and a subsequent barrage of lights, with enough variety to color a rainbow, shot through the air, with a few hitting those Death Eaters unfortunate enough to be standing behind or near Harry.

"Voldemort!" came the cry of an elderly, wizened voice. The owner of the name being called flinched at the imposing sight an absolutely furious Albus Dumbledore striding across the dirt, his wand raised. Flanking the headmaster was an eclectic group consisting of Hogwarts teachers and very serious and official-looking men and women, with all wands blazing.

The Death Eaters soon began returning fire, with many of them taking defensive positions behind gravestones, but they were outnumbered as greater number of pops and cracks brought with them more Aurors and Hit Wizards.

The moment Voldemort saw Dumbledore, she quickly fired off a bolt of green light toward Harry. However, the boy had been prepared for Voldemort's attack – albeit not the pandemonium that ensued – and quickly rolled to the side in accordance with his original plan to survive Voldemort's onslaught. The Dark Lord snarled at her failure, but before she could conjure up a second Killing Curse, Dumbledore strode in front of his student, conjured chunks of stone at the ready.

"Retreat!" Voldemort ordered her followers. She turned to face Dumbledore, a killing glare on her face. Dumbledore replied much in kind with a serious expression of his own, his blue eyes narrowed in determination. With a wave of her wand, Voldemort disappeared in black smoke, and within seconds, silence reigned over the graveyard once more. Apart from the occasional groans of those who had been hit but were fortunate – or, perhaps, unfortunate – enough not to die, there was no sound apart from the crunching of feet on the ground and panting of those who had overexerted themselves in the brief battle.

Harry took in one last look of the scene – the gravestones pockmarked with cracks and burns, the upturned earth, and the masses of Ministry officials that walked across the graveyard – before his knees buckled and he too tumbled into the dirt. "Harry!" Dumbledore cried, catching him in his arms.

"Stay with me, Harry…" Dumbledore's last words faded into oblivion as Harry slipped into the realm of unconsciousness, his tired, pained mind happy to be free of the troubles of the world and relishing the opportunity to rest, even if just for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An earlier version of this chapter mentioned Harry's pain through his scar, which, as Shadowdog11 pointed out in a review over on FFN, should not occur since the soul fragment that existed in him merged with the diary to form a new Riddle. I've since changed references of Harry's scar pain to other factors. Big thanks to Shadowdog11 for catching that and pointing it out!


	3. Prologue III: The Summer

_July 3 rd, 1995_

Harry groaned in his bed as he was shaken from his sleep by a nightmare. Voldemort’s subsequent physical reincarnation had etched itself into the soon-to-be-fifteen-years-old boy’s mind. The nightmare itself was recurring, and oftentimes added extra details – of the gruesome variety – to haunt him in his sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he blearily saw the glowing red numbers of his bedside alarm clock, which had a cracked glass screen courtesy of one Dudley Dursley. _04:37_. The day was many hours younger than Harry would’ve preferred, but he nonetheless swung his legs onto the carpeted floor of his bedroom, yawned once while stretching, and forced himself up. Quickly dressing for a run, he quietly exited 4 Privet Drive, taking great care not to wake the still-slumbering Dursleys.

The morning breeze was a welcome feeling on Harry’s face as he began to build up his speed around the neighborhood. With the sun barely beginning to rise above the horizon, the air was still cool and refreshing. As he ran, rays of light bathed Harry in warmth every time he passed through the gap between two houses, and he felt himself fully awaken as he continued his morning run. The cool air helped him organize his somewhat-frazzled mind, as it always did; the relative silence, broken only by the occasional bark of an early-riser dog or the chirping of birds, helped him find a certain sense of tranquility and peace. When the ambience of nature began to be broken by the sounds of opening garage doors and he could see lights flickering on in the nearby houses, Harry redirected himself back towards the Dursleys’ residence.

No lights were on yet at 4 Privet Drive, the Dursleys being late risers compared to the rest of Privet Drive. Moving quietly, Harry entered the still-dark house and moved up the stairs to the second floor. A quick shower and teeth-brushing later, Harry found himself in front of the stove cooking some eggs and bacon. It was, after all, a part of his daily chores at the Dursleys and how the teenager earned his keep.

Then the doorbell rang.

Harry looked towards the direction of the front door of 4 Privet Drive with some confusion. How often did someone knock on the door at six-thirty in the morning? Before Harry could decide whether he should go and see whoever it was at the front door or stay with the bacon to make sure it didn’t burn, he heard his uncle’s voice boom from the top floor.

“RUDDY HELL! WHO’S AT THE DOOR AT THIS HOUR?” Vernon Dursley yelled, his voice carrying easily throughout the house. A silence fell over the house for about three seconds. Then: “BOY! GET THE DOOR!” Harry quickly turned off the heat on the stove and scurried to the front door, spatula still in hand. Unlocking and opening the front door, Harry stared at the sight of none other than Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, first class, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump, etc.) himself, complete with long twirled beard and eccentric robes – in this case, a light-blue flowery design.

“Professor?” Harry queried, confused. The old man simply smiled and clapped his hands together.

“Harry! I hope you’ve had a wonderful summer so far, but alas I’m afraid it will have to be cut short. We must move quickly. May I enter?” Dumbledore looked through the frame of the door as Harry dumbly nodded and parted to allow entry, slightly shocked at seeing his eccentric headmaster standing in the middle of the Dursleys’ doorframe. The old wizard peered around his Muggle surroundings, taking in the sight of a standard mid-90s non-magical British family home as Vernon Dursley tumbled down the stairs. Absentmindedly, Harry was still impressed that his whale-like uncle could still fit between the bannister of the staircase and the wall without breaking either one.

Vernon reached the bottom of the stairs, at which point he squinted at the sight of the rather unfashionable wizard. Then he got redder.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Vernon spat, toddling forwards with one finger pointed at Dumbledore. The wizened wizard simply smiled, though his smiles, like always everything else he did, was enigmatic.

“I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I have come here today to take your nephew, Harry, from your hands for the remainder of this summer. Rest assured, he will be absolutely safe under my care.” The expression on Vernon’s face made it clear that he would rest more assuredly if Harry were not safe with Dumbledore, but all he replied verbally was with a grunt.

“Well then, boy,” he quickly turned to an absolutely bewildered Harry, “you better get packing!” Harry nodded and sprinted up the steps to his small room. Harry nodded and sprinted up the steps to his small room, leaving his alternating-between-sheer-joy-and-anger uncle and his mysterious headmaster.

Climbing the stairs quickly, two-at-a-time, he reached his small bedroom, where he opened up the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed and glanced around, looking for the things that he needed to pack. From his small table, he grabbed his transfiguration textbook and its accompanying, incomplete summer homework. The pair of running shoes and clothes he had worn for the morning run were haphazardly stuffed into the trunk, as were the assorted owl treats that were scattered around the room. A quick rundown of the room revealed that he didn’t miss anything, and soon after running up the stairs of 4 Privet Drive, Harry was dragging his trunk down the steps, where his uncle, red as ever, still waited with Dumbledore.

“Are you ready, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, an enigmatic smile dancing on his face. Harry shuddered a little - somehow, he didn’t feel like Dumbledore was only talking about leaving 4 Privet Drive for the summer.

* * *

The first stop the man-and-boy duo made was to visit a sleepy Muggle town. They reached a non-descript house that Dumbledore led the way into, a simple _lumos_ brightening the tip of his wand and piercing the darkness of the house. While the house was covered in blood and gore, Harry soon found that it was all fake, planted by Horace Slughorn, a former professor at Hogwarts and a friend of Dumbledore, to throw off suspicion. After some persuading from Harry, Slughorn had agreed to return to Hogwarts as a professor for the year after next (Harry would have to remember why the Dumbledore had not insisted Slughorn return for the upcoming year instead), and the headmaster left with Harry in tow, a smile on his face as he whisked them both away for the second time that day.

When Harry re-opened his eyes after a serious bout of nausea from side-along Apparition, he found himself at a rather small and quaint cottage house. As he looked around, all he saw were rolling fields of green grass and some hills in the background.

“I have to say, Harry, you handle side-along Apparition very well. Most usually vomit the first few times,” the elderly headmaster said to his young charge.

“That was Apparition? Those two times? The second felt much worse than the first”

“Yes. Quite a useful skill, and one you shall be learning very shortly. I daresay that you weren’t entirely settled from the first trip, which only added to the pain of the second.” With that and a small chuckle, Dumbledore strode off towards the cottage, Harry keeping pace right behind him. The cottage itself was surrounded by a short wooden fence, and there were small rows of vegetables growing in neatly planted fields. It was an oddly domestic sight, seeing the eccentric wizard, clad in his equally eccentric robes, slowly open the latch to a small wooden fence-gate.

Walking up the stone path to the heavy wooden front door, Dumbledore rapped his knuckle on the door three times before announcing, “I am now entering”.

Harry peered into the small cottage as Dumbledore opened the door. The floor, though made of stone, had a few rugs thrown on it at certain places, giving it a sense of warmth that was further accentuated by the small fireplace in the center of the living space – of course, being the middle of summer, it wasn’t lighted, but it was the thought that counted. A wooden table, complete with four wooden chairs, sat beside the kitchen of the space, and a hallway off the right side extended to further rooms that he couldn’t see yet. The two walked into the space, and just as Dumbledore closed the door behind them, a door at the end of the long hallway opened.

And out stepped Tom Riddle.

Harry gaped as she strode towards them, wearing nothing more than long-sleeve pajamas and a pair of cotton slippers. Her hair, messy and frazzled, completed her just-got-out-of-bed appearance, and Harry couldn’t figure out whether he should be afraid of the would-be Dark Lord or amused at said would-be Dark Lord’s appearance. Deciding that silence was golden, he kept his distance behind Dumbledore as the headmaster turned to meet the cottage’s sole occupant, who was now yawning and rubbing an eye with one hand while the other arm was outstretched.

“Ms. Riddle, how have you been?” Dumbledore greeted. Riddle raised an eyebrow.

“You visited yesterday. You know exactly how I’ve been. Your damned vows are still as thorough as they were then, you know?” She replied, an edge of irritation bleeding into her voice. She eyed Harry standing behind Dumbledore. “And what’s the boy wonder doing here? I suppose you want to show off your captured Dark Lord?”

“This may be easier to explain if we are all sitting and comfortable. Please.” Dumbledore gestured, and with little more than a huff, Riddle sat down in one of the chairs, leaning slightly backwards on its hind two legs as Harry and Dumbledore both took their seats across the table from her.

“Voldemort has risen again,” Dumbledore said bluntly. Riddle stopped balancing on the hind two legs of her chair and leaned forward, all signs of morning laziness gone from her expression as her eyes widened and her lips drew tighter.

“What of it?” Riddle replied, staring at the headmaster. “Is this the part where you pressure me into revealing more of my secrets? As you well know, I have nothing left to hide regarding Voldemort. Not like I knew much anyway.” Dumbledore regarded her for a moment, his face losing his customary mirth and cheer before quickly snapping back to his normal expression.

“That’s hardly it. Voldemort will try to find her horcruxes, and I can only imagine that it is but a matter of time before she discovers that Lucius gave up the diary. Whether or not she connects that with you – that is, your corporeal self – is still arguable, but you are in grave danger if you let Voldemort rein freely,” Dumbledore replied. Riddle chuckled mirthlessly.

“Don’t you think it more likely that she would kill you and then break me out? What do I have to fear?” Dumbledore sighed.

“You are approaching this incorrectly. You believe that you and the renewed Voldemort are of one being, that you two will coexist if I am dead. I believe otherwise. Logically, given the nature of the horcrux soul implements that we have seen thus far, I would say that it is fairly reasonable to assume that the original Voldemort would not bear to live with another potential Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, running around. You are not a complementary companion to Voldemort – you are a threat to her reign.”

At this, Riddle’s face lost its cheer as she contemplated the powerful wizard’s words. No doubt, to her logical mind, that there was truth to his words – she herself would not accept another Tom Riddle, much less the original who had some forty years more experience and cruelty than her.

“What do you want then,” Riddle suddenly spoke up, all cheer and mirth lost in her voice.

“I need you to train Harry.” At this, the mentioned boy-who-lived looked up, startled, alternated his gaze from Riddle to the headmaster and then back again. Riddle had much the same reaction, flicking her eyes between the old headmaster and the much younger boy that sat beside him.

“This brat? You really think he can defeat the Dark Lord?” Riddle asked incredulously, staring at Harry like he would combust under the intensity of her glare. For his part, Harry slid into the seat a little, intimidated by the female who, in another time and body, would become the most feared dark wizard in history.

Dumbledore nodded. “I do. I wholeheartedly believe that one day, at one point, Harry will possess the power and skills necessary to cleanse this world of the darkness Voldemort brings.” He carefully eyed the eighteen-year-old witch sitting across from him. “And you will help me carry Harry to that point.”

* * *

Harry groaned as turned over and pushed himself off the cold stone floor. As it turned out, the small lovely cottage hid a relatively large underground dueling facility that Dumbledore had constructed, and it was here that Tom Riddle was showing him the difference between a fully-fledged witch and a teenaged schoolboy.

Said fully-fledged witch was glaring at Harry as he got off the floor and dusted off his shirt and pants. At this point, Harry had lost count of how many times he had been defeated by the older witch, but he could feel his body shaking under the magical and physical exertion of the practice session.

“That will be enough, Harry, Ms. Riddle,” came Dumbledore’s voice softly from the side. The two combatants turned to face the old wizard, who sat in a cushy transfigured armchair and had been watching their rather one-sided duels for the past hour. Riddle grabbed a towel from the side and wiped the sweat off her face, not bothering to face Harry or Dumbledore as she stared at the wall. Harry just fell to the floor into a sitting position, arms behind him trying to keep his upper body upright.

“Harry, you have done well today. I wouldn’t have expected you to do any better versus Ms. Riddle – even in her school days, she was a formidable duelist, and you still have a few more years before full magical maturity.” Turning to Riddle, Dumbledore continued. “As for you, Ms. Riddle, you display all the magical talent and skill Voldemort had at your age, but you have little of the refinement and efficiency she has gained in the decades later. If you are to hold your own, you must focus solely on that now. The time that Voldemort spent delving into dark magic must be used to hone your magical efficacy.” Riddle simply nodded and took a swig from her water bottle.

Dumbledore leaned back into the soft cushions of his armchair, looking at the scene before him. The transfigured stone walls of the dueling chamber were burnt with scorch marks, more being on Harry’s side than Riddle’s, but the younger boy had gotten more than a few good shots off too. His talent was prodigious – to be expected from the son of the powerful James Potter and talented Lily Evans. By the old man’s estimate, if they could’ve given him another full decade, Harry Potter would’ve been able to duel, and perhaps even overpower, Voldemort herself to a standstill in a one-on-one fight, but alas, they did not have that time. At best, they – the Order of the Phoenix and other elements of those that wished good upon the world – would be able to delay for a year, maybe two, but they could not last indefinitely against prophecy.

_Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._

Dumbledore internally flinched and sighed. It was prophesized. Harry Potter would have to face Voldemort, and he would have to be the one that finishes her off. Still, the prophecy didn’t disallow the possibility of those that would help Harry do the deed. Dumbledore, again, looked at the two tired duelists in front of him. Harry was still on the floor, but he had shifted himself near his bench and was gulping down cold water from his bottle. Riddle had sat down on her bench with her towel around her neck, slowly breathing through her mouth to calm down after the intense dueling session.

Harry Potter. Tom Riddle.

Together, they could end Voldemort’s terror upon the world. He would only have to help them get to that point.


	4. Prologue IV: The Ministry

_June 18 th, 1996_

A spell whizzed past Harry’s head – he had barely ducked behind the massive Fountain of Magical Brethren in the middle of the Ministry of Magic’s atrium – and struck the gold gates behind him. In front of him, Bellatrix Lestrange, the murderer of Remus Lupin, stood, no longer running away, but rather giggling maniacally and taunting the fifteen-year-old school boy.

“Come out, come out, little Harry!” Lestrange cackled in her patently insane sing-song tone. “What did you come after me for, th-” Her voice abruptly cut off as Harry swung around the side of the Fountain, yelling “ _Stupefy_!” as he pointed his wand at the female Death Eater. Lestrange waved her wand and the red of the Stunning Spell bounced harmlessly off of a previously-invisible red-tinted barrier into the marble floor.

“There you are, Potter! You’ve finally decided to come out and play!” Lestrange shot off a few of her own spells, forcing Harry to roll to one side to dodge most of the multi-colored lights while snapping up a quick Shield Charm of his own.

_Damn it_ , Harry thought, barely keeping pace with the older and far more experienced witch. Even after suffering a long decade-and-a-half stay in Azkaban and the physical and magical atrophy that it included, Bellatrix Lestrange was still more powerful than he was. Lestrange flicked a piece of the Fountain into the path of Harry’s Reducto, breaking apart the small piece of marble but keeping the witch behind it safe.

“Just hand over the prophecy and this will all be over,” Lestrange crooned as she shot a nasty looking yellow curse at Harry. He rolled out of the way of it, and grimaced under the intensity of spellfire coming from the Death Eater.

“What prophecy? It’s gone – smashed back there. Looks like Voldemort’s never going to find out what it said.”

“What?” Lestrange looked stunned, and her wand stopped shooting out spells, though it still remained pointed in Harry’s general direction. Harry, cautious as ever, kept his wand raised and used the reprieve to gather his breath and strength.

“You lie!” she shrieked. “Give it over! Give me the prop-” she suddenly cut off. “No master, I’m sorry, I tried my best, please don’t…”

Harry warily looked at the likely-insane witch. “Voldemort’s not here. She won’t be able to help you.”

“Who says I am not?” Harry whipped around at the distinctive sound of _that_ high and cold voice, taking in the sight of the eerily-pale and snake-like visage of Voldemort. He quickly turned his wand against the Dark Lord. With a wandless flick of the wrist, Voldemort tore the wand out of the tired boy’s hand, leaving it to clatter some distance away from them.

“The boy does not lie…” Voldemort turned her head towards Lestrange, who had by now crept into a nearby Ministry floo. “We will have words about this. Leave us.” Lestrange nodded and with a burst of green fire was gone.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort whispered, looking straight at the boy. “For too long you have been a thorn in my side. And now, you are alone and weak.”

“Hardly.”

Voldemort’s eyes widened at the familiar – and hated – voice, quickly drawing her wand and flicking off a Killing Curse towards the boy-who-lived. However, with a screech, Fawkes the Phoenix descended from the ceiling of the Ministry Atrium, swallowing the curse in a single gulp before bursting into flames and ashes. Voldemort snarled as she saw Dumbledore stride out from one of the Ministry floos and quickly take a position between the Dark Lord and Harry.

“You made a mistake tonight, Tom,” Dumbledore spoke, his tone harder than Harry could recall it usually being. “The Aurors are on their way.”

“By which point I will be gone.” Voldemort swished her black cloak a little. “And you… shall be dead.” With her last word, she whipped around her wand with surprising speed, shooting a bolt of lightning at the old headmaster. Dumbledore responded in kind, and their magical bolts hit each other in the center between them, arcing wildly as each struggled to assert their magical dominance over the other. Harry, wandless and outclassed, hid near one of the floos, keeping his head down so as to avoid the wild arcs of magic that Voldemort tried to aim towards him.

Voldemort broke off the magical arcs, shooting a Killing Curse at Dumbledore, who simply stood there. For a second, it looked as if the old wizard was undefended and unprepared, and Harry wanted to cry out, to warn him. Then a metallic centaur jumped in front of the headmaster, blocking the green jet of light and exploding into hundreds of pieces upon impact. Harry gaped as he saw the Fountain of Magical Brethren magically come alive – the beings of the statue all gathered by Dumbledore, and with them as his side, he began to approach Voldemort. Furiously, the witch began firing Killing Curses at him, but each time one approached him, a magical statue jumped in front of him, taking the unshieldable curse for him.

As the last statue around Dumbledore bit the dust, the old wizard almost-lazily flicked his wand at Voldemort, shooting off a spell that emanated such magical power that Harry could feel its force from behind the spell and Dumbledore. Voldemort grunted as she conjured a visible silver shield, with the resulting impact of Dumbledore’s spell on Voldemort’s shield causing a deep sound that reverberated throughout the Atrium.

“You do not seek to kill me?” Voldemort snarled. “Still believing that you are above such _brutality_?”

“We both know that there are other ways of destroying a person, Tom,” Dumbledore replied calmly, still walking towards the Dark Lord. “Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit–”

“There is nothing worse than death!” Voldemort yelled, firing off a volley of brightly-colored spells. Dumbledore blocked some, redirected others, and conjured various household items to tank the rest.

“That’s where you are mistaken,” Dumbledore almost whispered, and in the heat of the exchange between the two most powerful magicals of the century, there was no indication that Voldemort had heard him. “This has always been your greatest weakness…” The old man almost looked sorrowful at the thought and at the furious opponent in front of him before his face re-steeled itself into an expression of strength and determination. His wand movements doubled in speed, and Voldemort found herself backpedaling under the relentless assault.

Dumbledore conjured a whip-like strand of glowing magic, flinging it across the space to wrap tightly around Voldemort. For a second, Harry thought that the duel was over and that Dumbledore had captured the Dark Lord, but quickly, Voldemort seemed to bulge under the strain of the bindings.

With a yell, Voldemort tore apart the bindings and flung an aura of magic around the entire Atrium, shattering glass and sending out a shockwave that surprised Dumbledore to the point that he took a step back – the shockwave nearly blew Harry away. Voldemort stood in the middle of the Atrium, an enraged glare on her face, before her form distorted and became a shadowy black man-shaped mass. Finally, the mass seemed to collapse upon itself, and it disappeared.

Harry moved to stand up, but Dumbledore’s voice clearly rang out. “Stay where you are, Harry!” The headmaster’s voice had a note of fear in it, as did his face, that scared Harry. The quietness of the hall was deafening, and nothing could be heard except for the running water of the Fountain and the weak croaking of the newly reborn Fawkes.

Then Harry’s scar flared.

And Harry Potter knew pain.

* * *

_June 18 th, 1996_

“Harry?” a voice echoed out.

Harry groggily opened his eyes, his vision taking a moment to reassert itself before coming upon the view of Albus Dumbledore. The old wizard looked at him with worry. Harry slowly made his way to sit up as a flash of light disconcerted the young wizard. He looked around.

The Atrium was now full of people, and by the robes, Harry could tell that many were either Ministry workers or Aurors. There were also several photographers – and presumably accompanying journalists – as evidenced by the flashes of light going off, many of them in the direction of the headmaster-student duo.

“She was here!” cried a voice in the crowd. “I saw her here. She was standing right there!” Another voice came from the crowd. “I know, Williamson, I know.  I saw her too.” A figure made its way out of the crowd, and as it approached, Harry saw it was none other than Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic.

“Merlin’s beard! She – she was here! In the Ministry of Magic! How – it doesn’t seem possible – how can this be?”

“If you proceed downstairs into the Department of Mysteries, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said dryly, his tone altogether pleased. “you’ll find many escaped Death Eaters contained in the Death Chamber, bound by an Anti-Disapparition Jinx and awaiting your decision as to what to do with them.”

“Dumbledore!” Fudge gasped, his face beginning to turn a bright red. “You – here – your vigilantes – I – I –” He turned to the Aurors that surrounded him. “Seize him!” All of the Aurors, some of them veterans of the last war against Voldemort, queasily looked at each other as they glanced at the wondrous amount of destruction inflicted upon the poor Ministry Atrium and then back at Dumbledore. None of them moved so much as a muscle.

“Cornelius, I am ready to fight your men – and win again!” Dumbledore boomed in a thunderous authoritative voice. “But a few minutes ago, you saw proof of what you have deemed an irrefutable falsehood! Lord Voldemort has returned, and you have been chasing the wrong men for twelve months, and it is time you listened to sense!”

“I don’t…” Fudge trailed off, looking around for help as to what to say. Unfortunately for him, Lucius Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, and his sweet words and sweeter gold were of no use to the Minister for Magic in this situation. “Uh – Dawlish – Williamson! Go down to the Department of Mysteries and see about that… Merlin, Dumbledore – the Fountain – what happened?” Fudge was whimpering by the end, staring at the destruction that had unfolded at the heart of the Ministry of Magic.

Dumbledore ignored Fudge as he helped Harry to his feet, looking over him to ensure that he was fit and unhurt. Finally, he turned toward the Minister.

“We can discuss the events of tonight after I have sent Harry back to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said to Fudge.

“Harry – _Harry Potter_?” Fudge’s eyes widened as he saw Harry stand up beside Dumbledore with the latter’s help. “Wha – what’s all this about?”

Again, Dumbledore ignored the hapless man, and took a small piece of rubble – a small finger that once belonged to a statue – and muttered “ _Portus_.” The finger glowed blue and grumbled for a few seconds before becoming still once more.

“Now see here, Dumble-” Fudge cut off with a whimper under the intensity of the glare that Dumbledore gave him. Moving towards the trembling Minister, Dumbledore’s voice changed to the harder tone that Harry remembered vividly from the duel against Voldemort.

“You will give the order to remove Delores Umbridge from Hogwarts. You will tell your Aurors to stop searching for Rubeus Hagrid. I will give you…” Dumbledore pulled out a watch and glanced at it. “half an hour of my time tonight, which should be sufficient to cover the important parts of tonight’s events. After that, I will need to return to my school. If you need any more help after that, you are welcome to contact me at Hogwarts. Letters addressed to the headmaster will find me.”

Turning to Harry, Dumbledore handed the metallic finger to the boy. “I will see you in half an hour,” Dumbledore said quietly to Harry. “One… two… three…”

Harry felt the familiar sensation of a hook on his navel, and before he could register anything else, he was swept away – the Ministry Atrium, Fudge, the Aurors, and Dumbledore were gone before he could think about anything, and he flew forward into a void of nothingness…

* * *

_June 18 th, 1996_

Then his feet found purchase on solid ground again, and Harry found himself back in Hogwarts. More specifically, it was the Hospital Wing, and like always, Madam Pomfrey was ready. She quickly moved from a chair-and-desk she had been sitting at to administer to Harry, and before he could say “ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ”, Harry found himself in a cot wearing clean new clothes. Dazed, Harry just lay there and watched as the mediwitch ran a battery of diagnostic charms over him.

“It looks like you are relatively unharmed, apart from a few minor cuts and bruises. Rest will do you the best healing. Take some time to sleep,” the elderly mediwitch reported before moving back to her desk. Harry stared with despondent gloom at the ceiling, his eyes tracing over patterns that he had long since memorized.

“What, did you get slapped by a troll?” a voice floated over from Harry’s other side, and he shifted his head to gaze upon the visage of Tom Riddle. For the fifteen-year-old boy, this Tom Riddle was infinitely more pleasing to look at compared to her older, more twisted self. Her long black hair was tied in a ponytail, and she wore a nurse’s apron.

“What are you doing here?” Harry hoarsely replied. _Why was she at Hogwarts?_ Riddle huffed a bit and messaged a side of her neck.

“Dumbledore was at the cottage when he got the message about the battle. He dragged me along here and told me to help out before leaving again.” Riddle absentmindedly examined a fingernail. “I can only assume that he thinks there’ll be a lot of injuries.”

At that, Harry felt a swell of emotions rise up in him. _Remus_. The werewolf had been Harry’s favorite professor thus far at Hogwarts, and their friendship was only strengthened by the revelation of his connection with Harry’s parents and the secret of Sirius’ innocence. He was a good fighter, but a great friend. _Only now, he’s dead – and I couldn’t even fucking avenge him_. In his mind’s eye, Harry could see the Ministry’s Death Chamber. Flashes of light flew around as the battle raged between the Order of the Phoenix assisted by Dumbledore’s Army versus Voldemort’s elite Death Eaters. He could see Bellatrix Lestrange fire a sickly looking dark yellow curse, with Sirius barely dodging it, only for it to hit Lupin’s left torso. How the man yelled as he fell down and didn’t stir again. The anger that he had felt as he chased Lestrange out of the Death Chamber came back in full force-

“Harry?” Harry snapped back to reality to see Riddle looking over him. He thought he saw concern in her eyes, but as he blinked, her expression hardened and what he thought he saw flitted away.

“A man died tonight because of me,” Harry spoke softly and morosely, his eyes dull as they began to moisten. “And I was too weak to avenge him.” He began to tremble – though no one, even Harry, knew if it was out of sadness or anger. Riddle looked conflicted as his words, and her forehead scrunched as if she were thinking of how to respond. As she opened her mouth to give a reply, the Hospital Wing’s fireplace flared and Dumbledore emerged. The two both looked at the headmaster, who glanced around and nodded to Pomfrey before heading towards Harry’s bed.

“Harry…” Dumbledore began. “You will be happy to note that none of your friends suffered any lasting injuries, though a stay at St. Mungo’s wouldn’t be out of order.” Harry’s mouth twitched as if trying to pull itself into a smile, but it only looked like a macabre imitation of happiness.

“Remus Lupin is also alive.” At this, Harry snapped to the old headmaster, his eyes wide, and he pushed himself up in the bed.

“What? I saw him… I saw him fall.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

“Alas, he has lost his left arm, and it remains to be seen whether his left leg and eye can be saved, but he will live. The Dark magic that was inflicted upon him will hinder a full recovery, but Remus will remain with us.”

As if Harry were a balloon that had just been punctured, he deflated back into the bed, his limbs and body suddenly bereft of the surge of energy that had allowed him to raise himself. Riddle’s expression settled back on her emotionless, stone-cold default.

“We still have many things to discuss,” Dumbledore spoke, breaking the silence. He quickly conjured two chairs – one for himself and the other for Riddle – and a curtain that covered the bed. After pulling out and waving his wand slightly, he pocketed the wooden magical conduit and sighed.

“I have to apologize to you, Harry.” The boy in question tilted his head.

“What for, professor?” The old man sighed again.

“Have you noticed that I have been avoiding you for the past school year? This, apart from our impromptu meeting courtesy of Miss Umbridge, has been the first time we have talked since the attack on Mr. Weasley.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I wondered a bit about that.”

“You see,” Dumbledore continued, his voice straining slightly. “I feared the worst after learning about your connection with Voldemort. I feared–” Dumbledore’s voice cracked slightly, and he quickly recomposed himself. “I feared that Voldemort could force her way into your head, and manipulate your mind. I feared that she would steal your memories, learn valuable information about the war effort, and ultimately, possess you. This is why I had you learn Occlumency, in an effort to close this avenue of attack. It is why I distanced myself from you – in a vain effort to protect you. An old man’s mistake…”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

“As tonight’s events have demonstrated, I was greatly mistaken. Voldemort’s ultimate goal is not to kill me, but rather to kill you. By distancing myself from you, I have made you more vulnerable and less protected. I’m so sorry…”

“Professor,” Harry spoke up, making the headmaster gaze upon his student. “It’s… it’s alright. You did what you thought was the best course of action with what you knew, and I can’t fault you for that. I mean, Voldemort did end up possessing me, and even though I fought her out, it was close. You weren’t entirely wrong in what you did, but if you believe you are, I forgive you.” The old wizard looked gladdened by Harry’s words.

“Touching,” came Riddle’s cold voice. The other two turned to look at her. “But what does this have to do with me? Did I even need to be here while you two worked out your issues?” Dumbledore sighed once more.

“Actually, Miss Riddle, there is a reason why I have kept you here. It is high time to intensify our efforts against Voldemort, and as such, you will be staying here, at Hogwarts, until the war is over.”

Riddle’s mouth opened slightly.

“It is safer for you to remain here at Hogwarts, the most protected location in the British Isles, and I have another duty for you. You must teach Harry Occlumency. I had hoped that Severus’ prodigious skill in the field would allow him to better impart it to Harry (Harry mentally snorted) but it seems that this was not the case. As a skilled practitioner of both Occlumency and Legilimency, as well as not having any other responsibilities, you are undoubtedly well suited to this task.”

Riddle’s mouth closed and opened again as she struggled to find words to say. Harry, stunned by the turn of events, remained silent. Before Riddle could give a retort, Dumbledore looked intensely at her.

“This war will be difficult. I require your full cooperation in prosecuting it to its end and to our eventual victory.” As if magically compelled, Riddle nodded, though her eyes still showed some annoyance.

“You will require an alias while you stay here at Hogwarts. While you look young enough to pass for a sixth or seventh year, the name “Tom Riddle” could be detrimental if heard by the wrong people.” Dumbledore thought for a moment.

“I think _Evelyn_ is a rather nice name, wouldn’t you agree?”


End file.
